


High Heels and Tattoos

by KatsatheGraceling



Series: Long Bondlock Prompt Fills [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom, bondlock - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Crossdressing, I Don't Even Know, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Q in Drag, Q in Heels, Q in a dress, Q is a Holmes, Q makes a good looking woman, drag!Q
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatsatheGraceling/pseuds/KatsatheGraceling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Hi! I just found these long fills and I LOVE them. Especially the humour :)</p><p>I hope you're still taking prompts! If you are, can you please do one where q is undercover as either bond's date (in drag and none too pleased about it) or as his son?</p><p>Thanks ^^</p><p>- Ohvitamea</p>
            </blockquote>





	High Heels and Tattoos

Bond walked down the bright white halls of MI6, his black shoes nearly silent against the linoleum tile. 

He had recently come back from a mission, but like most of the Double-O agents, he had immediately gone home for a full night’s sleep instead of reporting to Medical.

Now, having been fully chastised by the doctors in Medical, he was making his way to Q-Branch to get Q to revive his Walther. It wasn’t a huge surprise that all of the equipment that he had been issued was trashed (006 and 007 were especially bad at the _’don’t break’_ part of their instructions). This time, however, Bond had managed to partially salvage his radio - a feat unheard of before today.

He still maintained that it wasn’t his fault that the damn things always ended up in pieces when they were in his care. Q just kept making them so _small_ and _breakable_ that they somehow found themselves underfoot and crushed. Honestly, the man should know better by now.

But, behold, the small silver radio was in his hand, still in one piece (albeit slightly burnt).

Bond finally arrived at Q-Branch, and strode right in. The little boffins looked startled at his appearance - perhaps he should have made an effort to cover the multitude of plasters on his body, but it was too late now.

Confidently, he strode up to Q’s office and opened the door, only to find it empty. Bond turned back to glance at the rest of Q-Branch, wondering if he had walked right past him.

But no bespectacled green eyes greeted him, only the nervous glances from the Q-Branch minions. He huffed.

Had the boy gone home? Bond had to admit that it was odd to think that Q had a life outside the work he did for MI6. He often thought that his Quartermaster actually lived in the building (his office had a futon, after all).

“Where’s Q?” he asked a mousy-looking intern as she passed him on her way to the break room. 

The girl squeaked at being called out. “I don’t know,” she stammered, and then added, “sir.”

Bond’s eyes narrowed as he let her go, and the girl scuttled away, clearly shaken. He turned to the room. “Who can tell me where Q is?”

One brave minion, a boy this time, stood, “Q is with M, sir. He’s being briefed.”

“Briefed? What for?” Bond swore to himself that if the boffin was too busy to congratulate him on salvaging the stupid radio, he’d crush it right in front of him.

The boy seemed to lose his courage slightly, but still answered, “For his mission, sir.”

Bond didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t like the sound of that at all.

* * *

M was pissed at Bond for storming into her office, but Bond was too angry to care at the moment.

“Where’s Q?” he demanded.

“With Miss Moneypenny. What concern is it of yours?”

“I can’t believe you’re sending him out on an assignment,” Bond hissed. “Are you insane?”

M leveled him with a warning glare. “I’d watch how you speak to me, 007. I _am_ your superior.”

Bond, of course, never heeded any warnings. “I’ll have you know that I don’t approve of this.”

"You don't have to, 007. My decision is final."

" _Agents_ are meant to be sent into the field, not branch executives. Find someone else that can do the job."

“There is no one else,” M snapped. “The system that we need access to cannot be hacked remotely, and Q is the only one with the skill set to get in and out before anyone can notice.”

“And you’re okay with just sending him out there on his own? He has no field training at all - if they catch him, they’ll eat him alive.”

“Well they won’t catch him, then, will they? Because you’ll be right there by his side.”

Bond froze. “What?”

M nodded, happy with her snap decision. “I am assigning you as Q’s bodyguard until he returns from his trip. You’ll go undercover with him.”

“I just got back,” Bond protested, but M cut him off.

“Well, you should have thought about that before you stormed into my office. Now get out. Q’s plane leaves in thirteen hours. I suggest you get ready.”

“And do you expect me to fly the blasted thing too?” Bond snarked.

M glowered. “And because of that, the two of you will be going as partners. You’ll be his date for the evening of the gala.”

Bond hissed, “You can’t do th-”

“I can, 007. Protest again and I’ll have him posing as your son.”

That was a low blow. Bond was touchy about his age, and to have to act as Q’s father all night would be torture.

Bond took a deep breath, jaw clenched, and then smiled tightly at M. “Yes, ma’am.” He turned and strode out of her office, refusing the urge to slam the door.

He supposed he should go back to the flat and tell Alec that he wouldn’t be able to join him for cards tonight. With a sigh, Bond started home.  
Bond and Alec shared a flat. It really was easier than any other arrangement, as both of them worked odd hours and were sometimes gone for weeks at a time.

When they were both home, however, most of their time was spent sitting on the sofa, drinking and either watching the telly or playing a Russian card game that Alec told him was called Durak. (A few years after they started playing, Bond actually looked up the rules for Durak. It turned out that at least ninety percent of the rules they played by had been made up by Alec. Bond didn’t mind, though, as most of these rules involved consuming some type of alcoholic beverage after putting down a card.)

Alec was off assignment at the moment, and he and Bond had planned to use tonight to unwind.

‘Well, that’s shot to hell, isn’t it?’ Bond thought.

He fished his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his flat. The lights were off; Bond figured Alec must’ve been out getting food or something.

Somewhere in between stepping through his door and making his making his way into the kitchen, Bond realised he wasn’t alone in his flat. Bond spent years trusting his instincts, and right now they were telling him that there was at least one person in his living room, trying to be very quiet. Alec wouldn’t bother trying to surprise him, and the man could never sleep through noise such as a door opening. 

Bond didn’t let on that he knew, of course, deciding to first reach over and snag one of the many guns that he and Alec had hidden in the flat. This one was stuck to the underside of a cabinet, and Bond silently pulled it off.

He silently walked towards where the intruder was, careful to use the layout of the flat to his advantage to keep him out of sight, and then spun around the corner, gun cocked and aimed at the figure sitting in his chair.

The man seemed entirely unimpressed, raising one brow as if to mock him.

“Evening,” Bond said pleasantly, mentally scanning the room for any other threats. There were none. The man even appeared to be unarmed.

“Have a seat, James.”

“I’m good, ta.”

The man sighed heavily, seemingly disappointed at Bond’s refusal.

“What do you want?” Bond asked, gun still trained on the man.

“It has been brought to my attention that you will be escorting a certain Quartermaster on a… _trip_ to the capital of the Czech Republic.”

“How do you know about that?” Bond asked, eyes narrowing. He had only left M’s office maybe twenty minutes ago.

The man only smirked.

“Who are you?”

The man kept his expression pleasant, “An interested party.”

Bond moved his gun slightly, hoping to remind the man that he was at a disadvantage.

“I can assure you, Mr. Bond, there’s no need for that.”

“ _What_ do you want?” Bond repeated. “How did you get that information?”

“I am not a man for empty threats, 007,” He said. “I would just like to remind you that, as a bodyguard, your job is to keep the asset safe.”

“I’m aware of the role of a bodyguard, thank you.”

“Good. Then you should also know, that should anything happen to this certain Quartermaster, your continued existence will be… well, _optional,_ shall we say?”

There was a heavy pause in the room as the weight of the threat hung in the air.

Bond finally spoke, “Are you threatening a man with a gun?”

“Oh please, it’s unloaded.”

Pausing, Bond opened the chamber, only to see that the bullets had been removed from his Walther. He started for the one in the bookshelf, but the man’s voice stopped him.

“They all are. You should find better hiding places.”

“Who the _hell_ are you?”

The man gave Bond a sinister smile, “Someone with the power to-”

He was cut off by his mobile ringing loudly in his trousers. Both occupants of the room froze, until the man finally dug out his phone. He glanced at the screen, eyes disinterested.

Bond raised a brow. “Will you be getting that?” he asked.

The man glowered, and pointedly pressed ignore.

“Right, then.”

“As I was saying, I am-”

They were both silenced by another phone going off, Bond’s this time.

“Don’t get that,” he man commanded, but Bond simply rolled his eyes and answered.

“Bond.”

“Don’t shoot him,” the voice spoke, quick and to the point.

“Well, I can’t, Q. He’s taken my bullets.”

Q snorted, “Coward. Tell him to piss off.”

Bond smiled. “Who is he?”

“Someone who actually cares about my well-being.”

“He has a funny way of showing it.” The man rolled his eyes.

“He does that.”

“How did you know he was here?”

Q paused. “It might be safe to say that I… _care_ about him as well.”

“Jesus.” Bond tossed his gun down, going back to the kitchen to get a drink. “Does he really have the power to make me disappear?”

Q skillfully avoided the question. “My family is… interesting.”

“Family? You’re related to this sod?”

“Sadly, yes. He’s my eldest brother, Mycroft.” he sighed. “And as for the assignment, Eve will be coming with us as well.”

“Right. I’m sure you’ve been filled in on the… roles we’ll be playing?”

“You mean how we have to pose as a couple because you threw a temper tantrum in M’s office?”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Bond winced.

Q huffed out a laugh. “No you’re not.”

Bond smiled, “You know me too well, Q.”

“Well, I have to go. Meet Eve and me at the airport at nine, yeah?”

Bond headed back to the living room. “Alright, see y- oh, shit.” 

He stared, open mouthed at the sight before him.

“Oh, hello James.” Alec said, glancing up from where he had the mysterious man hog-tied on the floor with his belt. “When did you get back?”

“What is it?” Q asked.

“Alec came home. Your brother can be very flexible.”

“You’re kidding me! Send me a picture,” Q blurted out.

* * *

Bond glanced at his watch. It was 21:10, and the plane was scheduled to leave in under twenty minutes.

_Where were they?_

Bond sighed, and checked his mobile again. Nothing.

Finally, he huffed and dialled Eve.

“Moneypenny,” she answered.

“Where the hell are you?”

“We’re nearly with you.”

“What’s taken so long?” he asked.

Eve paused, “May I take this time to remind you that you are in charge of the Quartermaster and his well-being.”

“That’s the second time I’ve been reminded of that, thanks.”

Eve’s voice was right behind him, “Well, good. He’s all yours.”

Bond turned to find Eve clinging on to a skittish looking Q, preventing him from bolting.

“Can’t we just drive?” he pleaded.

“No,” Eve and Bond spoke at the same time, and Eve took Q’s wrist and placed it in Bond’s hand.

“Don’t let him go,” she commanded.

Bond finally got a good look at Q. The boy’s hair was a mess - probably because he was continuing to run his fingers through it. His clothes were disheveled, and he couldn’t seem to hold still.

“I’m boarding,” Eve said, “and I won’t be sitting with you on the plane.” 

Bond and Q watched her leave, before the blond focused his attention on the younger man. “Q,” he started, but Q interrupted him. 

“I refuse to do this assignment. Take me home, Bond.”

“What are you so scared about?” Bond asked. “I’m here to make sure no one hurts you.”

Q’s eyes narrowed, and he scowled up at Bond. “That’s an order, 007,” he snapped, but it was hard to take him seriously when he wouldn’t stop fidgeting. “I am your superior. Take. me. home.”

“And I have orders from _your_ superior, Q. You’re not going anywhere but on that plane.”

A shudder visibly ran through Q’s slight frame at those words, and Bond paused. “Q,” he asked, “are you afraid of flying?”

Q’s eyes were on the ground, “Maybe...”

Bond smiled, and a woman over the intercom announced the last call for their flight. “C’mon, Q,” he said gently, and began to lead his Quartermaster to the gate.

“Don’t make me,” Q nearly pleaded, tugging against Bond’s grip on him.

“It won’t be that bad,” Bond promised. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

As they began to board the plane, Q became more skittish. “Drug me,” he said quietly. “Just drug me and wake me up when we’ve landed.”

“I didn’t bring any Valium with me, sorry.”

“Knock me out,” Q suggested, drawing the horrified attention of a few other passengers.

“No can do,” Bond said cheerfully, and dropped down into his seat. He tugged Q down with him, although the younger man immediately attempted to wriggle his way out of his chair.

“Q, quit,” he commanded. “You’re frightening the other passengers.”

“Good,” Q hissed. “Let them know that we’re all on a death trap.” He fastened his seat belt, tightening it to the point where Bond was wondering how his lower half got any blood.

The pilot announced that they were beginning to take off, and Q’s hands clutched at the armrests until his knuckles were white.

“Q,” Bond began, searching for something to distract Q’s mind with.

“Yes?” he asked through gritted teeth, and Bond winced sympathetically.

Suddenly remembering why he had gone to report in the first place, he fished out the small - still intact, a miracle - radio from his pocket. “Do I get a prize for this?”

Q’s grip loosened on the arm rests slightly, and he stared at the small piece of tech in awe. “How?” he asked.

“I-” Bond was cut off by the feeling of the plane ascending, and Q huddled in on himself, a small noise of discomfort escaping him.

In Q’s fear, the tiny radio slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, breaking.

“Well, shit,” Bond muttered. He bent down to scoop up all the little pieces under Q’s chair, but doubted the brunet even noticed, too lost in his own terror.

The plane finally levelled out, and Bond stuck the radio shambles under Q’s nose. 

“I didn’t do it this time,” Bond said smugly.

“Congratulations,” Q gritted out.

“I wasn’t issued another radio. This was my only one,” Bond paused. “And since you broke it, you need to fix it.”

Q blinked. “You want me to fix your radio? Now?”

Bond shrugged, “We have a little over an hour. For you, that’s more than enough time.”

“You’re trying to distract me,” he accused.

Bond raised his hands in mock surrender, “I’m trying to get my radio fixed - which _you_ broke, by the way.”

“My radios are much sturdier than that. A simple drop would not have broken it. You must have done something to it during your last mission.” Still, he took the parts out of Bond’s hand and spread them on the fold-out tray tray in front of him.

“Just keep thinking that, Q,” Bond said, and left Q to his tech.

* * *

Then, about three-quarters of the way into the flight, their plane hit turbulence.

“Bond!” Q squeaked, cowering in his seat.

Bond was immediately there, arms wrapped around Q, whispering words of comfort.

The plane hit a particularly pocket of air, and Q cried, “James!” He looked on the verge of tears.

Other passengers gave the pair sympathetic looks, and Bond flashed them a tight smile. The next shake, Q whimpered and literally climbed out of his seat and into Bond’s lap.

“Q,” Bond murmured sadly, and wrapped the younger boy in his arms. “Shh… It’s alright. I’m here. We’re going to be just fine.”

Q buried his face in the crook of Bond’s neck, and Bond rested his head on Q’s mat of hair. The flight attendant opted not to tell them to get back to their seats.

“Would I let anything happen to you?” Bond asked.

Q paused a moment before gently shaking his head.

“That’s right. You have me to protect you. You’re invincible.”

Slowly, Q’s breathing evened out, and he eventually moved back into his own seat. “How much longer?” he asked the flight attendant as she passed.

“Around ten more minutes. We ask that you please keep your seat belts fastened and remain seated until the plane has landed.”

Q nodded, and turned to Bond. He cleared his throat. “Erm, thank you, Bond. For… calming me.”

“It’s no trouble.”

Smiling timidly, Q handed Bond back his radio - now fully functional.

Bond only shook his head and laughed.

* * *

As soon as they landed, Eve immediately whisked Q away, saying she had to prep him for the gala tonight.

“It’s not until five hours from now,” Bond called at their backs. “How much time do you need?”

“Perfection takes time, 007,” Eve yelled, and dragged off a struggling Q. 

Bond shook his head, and made his way to the hotel room.

* * *

_Where was he?_

Bond subtly glanced around, taking note of all the party attendees, but not seeing Q.

Well, fuck.

If Q had gotten hurt, M would kill him - if Q’s insane brother didn’t get to him first.

He didn’t want to alarm the others with his frantic search for his Quartermaster, so he stayed on high alert, eyes flickering over each face.

Bond felt a tap on his shoulder. Mind still intent on finding his Quartermaster, he only glanced back enough to see a sleek black pump and a pale leg to dismiss them from his mind. He really couldn't afford to be distracted right now.

The girl cleared her throat and tapped again, demandingly.

"Busy," Bond grunted.

Bond heard a huff and felt a hand grab his shoulder, spinning him around. He opened his mouth to tell this woman that he was _definitely_ not in the mood, but stopped.

Paused.

Blinked.

Bright green eyes stared back at him, for once not framed by thick glasses. With a start, Bond realised that he was looking at his Quartermaster - done up like a girl!

Q was dressed in a cutting red dress, sleek and suave. The design was a simple long-sleeved cocktail dress, with the arms completely shrouded in lace.

_And, god, that lace._

The elegant V-neck of the dress left Q's throat bare and showcased his _(simply edible)_ collarbones. The dress cut off around the knees, and Q's legs were deliciously smooth. The bold red was a startling contrast against his pale skin, and Bond felt his jaw snap open.

Q gave him a sly smile, and lifted a lone finger to pick up his jaw. His nails were painted a glossy black, and his make up was applied in such a way that it gave his green eyes a smoky look. His long lashes were framed with mascara.

Bond heard Q speak through his tight smile. "This was Moneypenny's idea. Laugh, and I will kill you. Slowly." 

Bond schooled his expression. “You look… pretty.”

Q huffed daintily, and one lone curl fell into his face. His hair - instead of the snarl it usually resided in - was styled and sculpted to perfection. Each wave and ringlet seemed to have a mind of its own, twisting this way and that. And Bond swore there was a faint _shimmer_ to it.

Try as he might, Bond couldn't suppress his smile. "So I have Moneypenny to thank for this, hmm?" His arms lowered to wrap around Q's small waist, and he leaned down to whisper in the younger man's ear. His lips brushed the silver hoops dangling there. "I think I just might send her a gift basket."

"Oh?" Q murmured, "Why so?"

"For all the blackmail material I'll have after the night's through."

Scowling, Q pushed Bond away, only to trip over his own feet. The silver bracelets on his wrists jingled as the man let out a little _eep!_ , making the scene quite comical.

Bond caught him around the waist, and tugged the smaller man into his chest once again. "Easy, love," he breathed.

Q tried in vain to push the blond away. "Don't call me that," he snapped.

"We're supposed to be a couple, aren't we?" Bond asked, giving his Quartermaster a winning smile.

Q pouted, looking entirely too ador- Wait a minute. Is that-

"Are you wearing lip gloss?" Bond blurted out.

Q's glower returned. "Not by my own will.” At Bond’s raised brow, he admitted, “Eve tied me to a chair."

Bond laughed outright, a large booming laugh that caught the attention of the other guests around him.

Q thought they made quite a scene, standing in the middle of a large room, simply holding each other. Everyone else seemed to be conversing, but Q and Bond seemed to be in their own little bubble.

Well, at least, for a little while.

A man strode up to the pair, a confident smile on his lips. Bond eyed him warily. The man was wearing a suit slightly too large for him, but didn't appear to be holding any weapons. Then again, Bond's weapons were so carefully hidden that many of them wouldn't be found by a frisking. Bond paid his tailor very well.

The man eyed Q hungrily, before tuning to Bond. He held out his hand, "Rowan Huggins, nice to meet you." He pumped Bond's hand firmly.

"Likewise," Bond said dryly.

Rowan turned to Q and took his hand, bringing it to his mouth and laying a kiss on the back of it.

Only years of learning how to contain his expressions could keep Bond from bursting into laughter at the mortification on Q's face.

"And who, may I ask, are you?" Rowan inquired, his lips still hovering over Q's hand.

Bond met Q's horrified eyes, and smirked. "Yes, darling, introduce yourself," Bond agreed.

Q cleared his throat, and smiled at the man. "Hello," he said, keeping his voice soft, "I'm Quinn."

Bond smothered his laugh with a cough.

"Quinn," Rowan breathed. "How... exquisite." He turned Q's hand over to press his lips to the inside of the wrist. Q blanched at the man's audacity, and tried to snatch his arm back. Rowan simply held his hand instead.

"You wouldn't mind," Rowan said to Bond, oblivious to Q's discomfort, "if I took her on the floor for a spin?"

Bond smirked evilly at his Quartermaster. "Be my guest," he said.

Grinning, Rowan began to drag Q away.

"Bond!" Q hissed. "Bond, I can't walk. These monstrous heels, I can't move!"

Bond rolled his eyes.

Q's voice was more panicked now, "007, I will fall!"

Sure enough, Bond glanced down to see Q shuffling awkwardly on his feet. The Quartermaster was never really a graceful man, with his gangly arms and legs, and the addition of heels didn't do him any favours.

Rowan gave Q a particularly hard tug, and Bond watched as Q teetered slightly on one foot, before the younger man's feet quite literally slipped out from under him.

Quickly, Bond reached out and snagged his Quartermaster around the waist, hauling him back to his side. Q gripped at Bond's suit, clinging on as if his life depended on it.

Rowan turned, confused at why Q's hand was ripped from his grasp.

"Sorry," Bond said, "but it appears that Quinn won't be going with you." He turned, whisking Q away to the refreshments bar. Well, Q just shuffled along while Bond supported most of the smaller man's weight.

"Thank you," Q said quietly, picking up a fairy cake.

“Well I can’t have a Quartermaster with a broken wrist, can I? Then where would we be?”

Q smiled, “We’d be stuck with your hopeless hunt-and-peck.”

Bond laughed, and Q dipped his finger into the icing on top, licking it off. “Mm, this is watermelon.”

“I don’t think that’s how those are meant to be eaten,” Bond noted.

Q smiled up at Bond. “I just had hot wax poured over me and then used to rip hair out of my body. Let me eat the fucking cake how I want to.”

Bond snorted. “How did you even get here, then, if you can’t walk?’

“Very slowly.”

The pair laughed, and Bond snagged himself a cake as well.

“Where’s the target?” Q asked, still appearing to anyone that walked by as if he (she) was having a polite conversation.

“His name’s Warren, and he’s over my right shoulder, sitting in the VIP area.”

Q gave a subtle glance in that direction. “Is he supposed to be looking at us?”

 _‘Shit, no,’_ Bond thought.

He sincerely hoped tonight wouldn’t end in a firefight; Q would be harder to protect that way. “Not unless we’ve done something to act suspicious. Perhaps we should mingle.”

“Ugh, plebeians. Please don’t make me converse with them.”

Bond laughed. “It’s either that, or dancing.”

“Dancing,” Q replied quickly.

Bond studied the younger man, curious, “Are you _that_ socially inept?”

Q rolled his eyes. “I just don’t feel like having a heart-to-heart with the _lesser sort._ ”

“Y’know, I can see the family resemblance now,” Bond nodded.

Q huffed and smacked Bond’s chest, who winced good-naturedly. 

“Alright, then, we’ll dance.” Bond led Q (slowly) out on the dance floor, careful to stay near the edges for an easy escape if needed.

They each took a step, before realising that they were both trying to lead. Bond smiled smugly. “I believe that it’s the lady who follows.”

“Bite me,” Q muttered under his breath, but followed Bond’s lead. There was a minimal amount of stepping on toes from both parties involved, but to be fair, it was more of an endeavour of carrying Q on Bond’s part than an actual dance.

“We’re doing very well,” Q commented, impressed.

“It’s all in the lead,” Bond replied confidently.

Q chuckled. “Eve will be keeping an eye on Warren. You and I can sneak off to his hotel room to access his computer.”

“In a minute,” Bond smiled, and spun Q. The younger man let out a sound of surprise, and giggled - _giggled!_ \- at Bond.

“Someone seems to be a lot more relaxed,” Bond commented.

“You have that effect on me,” Q admitted.

Bond smirked, “Maybe you should unwind more often.”

“I just might.”

Across the room, Bond caught sight of Eve, who was slowly making her way to the VIP area. She glanced at them, and winked.

Bond rolled his eyes, and she motioned with her head, telling him to go. Bond nodded, and pulled a flask out of his pocket.

“Wha-” Q started to ask, but was cut off by Bond splashing some of the scotch on his face. He sputtered, “What the fu-”

“Oh, dear,” Bond interrupted, loudly. “Sweetheart, you look like you’ve had a bit too much.” He subtly snuck back the flask.

Realising what Bond was going for, Q played along. “I’m fine, love. I-” he took a step forward and tripped over his own feet. 

Bond steadied him, and turned to the couple next to them. “I think I’ll be taking her back to the room now.” The couple nodded, smiling.

“No,” Q whined as Bond dragged him away. “I want to stay and party.”

Bond chuckled, and they left the the ballroom of the hotel, making their way to the lift. After the third time Q tripped, Bond just decided it was easier to pick him up, bridal style. 

“Christ, Q, you have bony knees.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

They stood in silence for a few moments, waiting for the lift. Bond finally asked, “So, why exactly are you in drag?”

Q huffed. “Despite my efforts not to be, I am a recognisable figure in the technology world. M and Eve didn’t want to take the chance that I would be discovered.”

“And no one thought to tell me this?”

Q scowled. “I wasn’t informed until a dress was being shoved onto my body.”

Bond chuckled. They finally arrived at the right floor, and stepped out. “What’s Warren’s room number?”

“808,” Q replied.

“Got it.”

Bond looked at the lock. “Shit.”

“What is it?”

“I forgot about the electronic locks. Those are a bitch to pick.”

Q glanced at the door. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, and pulled out his mobile - right from his chest!

“Where were you keeping that?” Bond asked.

Q blinked, confused. “My bra,” he stated, as if the answer should have been obvious.

Bond swallowed, and nodded, “Right, then.”

Still slightly puzzled, Q chose to ignore Bond in exchange for tapping on his mobile. Finally, he waved it in front of the lock, and the small light turned green.

“Impressive,” Bond stated, and Q smiled.

They stepped into the room, careful for any cameras or traps.

“Why couldn’t we just break into this room in the first place?” Q asked, immediately walking over to the laptop resting on the desk. “Why did we have to go through all that crap downstairs?”

Bond set himself up as watch, gun out and ready (loaded this time). “Warren has this hotel locked up tight. The only people allowed in are party guests. We could have snuck in, but the chances of getting caught were much higher. The gala was the easiest and safest way in.”

“Okay,” Q said. He attached his mobile to the laptop, and then set to work.

“What are you doing to his computer that couldn’t have been done from Q-Branch?” Bond asked, standing behind Q, leaning his front against Q’s back.

“Mm, I’m uploading a programme to his computer that’s like spyware on crack. His hacking skills are very good, and M has asked me to allow him to continue as normal on his computer, so long as we can keep an eye on what he’s doing.”

“And he won’t find the programme on his computer?”

Q smirked at Bond, “You doubt me?”

Smiling, Bond opened his mouth to respond, only to be cut off by the sound of someone outside the door.

Both men looked at each other, wide-eyed, before Q scrambled to eject his phone and Bond to hide any evidence of their visit.

“Go!” Bond whispered, pointing to the bathroom. They ran in and closed the door at the same time as someone opened the main door. Bond dragged Q into the bath, drawing the dark blue shower curtain silently.

 _‘Warren,’_ Q mouthed, and Bond nodded.

Bond motioned to his gun, to which Q frantically shook his head. MI6 needed Warren alive, so he could lead them to his contacts.

Bond seemed nearly disappointed, and Q rolled his eyes.

They froze at the bathroom door opening, both completely alert.

A hand reached in, only to twist the knobs and turn on the shower spray. Bond’s hand quickly snaked its way over Q’s mouth, muffling his surprised cry at suddenly being drenched.

The hand tested the water temperature for a few moments, before withdrawing again. Warren’s footsteps receded out of the bathroom to somewhere else in the hotel room.

Slowly, Bond let go of Q, who was doe-eyed and panicking, and drew back the shower curtain.

He stepped out, his wet shoe making a _squeak!_ as he stepped on the tiled floor. They winced, but the water seemed to have drowned out the noise.

Bond reached back a hand to help a barefooted Q out, who was holding his heels in his hand. Bond smiled at the sight.

They tip-toed toward the open bathroom door, and Bond glanced out, gun ready. Warren was sitting at his computer, typing away, back to the bathroom. 

Bond grabbed Q’s hand and they stealthily made their way to the door. Q hoped the small trail of water they left behind wasn’t too obvious.

Q cautiously opened the door, and he and Bond slipped through, closing it softly.

They only made it twenty yards down the hall before bursting into a fit of laughter.

“I can’t believe we just did that,” Q gasped, chortling. “No, I can’t believe we didn’t get caught.”

Bond led them to the lift, hoping there would be no one inside when it opened. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain to someone why they were both soaking wet.

Thankfully, it appeared luck was on their side tonight. The lift was vacant, and they were only the next floor up.

Once they made it to their rooms, Bond unlocked the door with his key. Both men were still chuckling. 

“You can go get changed into something dry,” Bond said. “I’ll go grab some towels from the bathroom.”

“Make sure there’s not someone hiding in our shower, will you?” Q asked, spurring on another round of laughter.

Bond strode to the bathroom and picked up a few towels (and if he actually did look in the shower, that was no one’s business but his own).

He walked back into the bedroom, only to stop in his tracks. 

In front of him, Q was stripping out of the lacy dress, only for a frilly black bra and knickers to pop out. Bond's eyes widened, and a small pained sound left his mouth.

Q, realising that he wasn't alone, gasped and spun, scooping up the dress and clutching the fabric to him for some sort of modesty. He looked like a shrieking girl, to be honest.

"Bond," Q cried, eyes widened in comical horror.

Bond opened his mouth to respond, when a small flash of ink on Q's hip caught his eye. He tried to focus on it, but Q saw where his attention was aimed and shielded it from Bond's gaze.

"Q," Bond said slowly, "what's that?"

Q cleared his throat and rose from his crouched position. "What's what?" he asked innocently.

"Q," Bond admonished.

"007," Q sniffed indignantly.

Bond took a threatening step forward, and Q stumbled back, still holding onto the thin dress for dear life. "You have a tattoo," Bond declared.

"No," Q protested. He glanced around the room, as if looking for an escape. Bond was positioned between Q and both the bathroom and the exit.

Realising there was no escape, Q’s eyes narrowed. “007, if you'll excuse me, I have to get changed."

"Go ahead," Bond said bluntly.

Q’s eyes widened in surprise, and Bond saw his chance. He rushed the smaller man, grabbing the dress and throwing it to the floor.

“Bond!” Q shrieked, trying to cover the mark with his hands, but Bond tackled him to the bed and pinned his arms above his head.

Q squirmed, but Bond didn’t relent. “This isn’t fair,” Q complained. “You have combat training.”

“Oh well,” Bond said cheerfully. He restrained both Q’s legs with one of his, and bent his neck to get a good look at the tattoo.

Bond blinked.

“Is that a Dalek?”


End file.
